


Letter Of Resignation

by zauberer_sirin



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: F/M, Marriage Proposal, Post-Canon, political otp doing political things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-19
Updated: 2013-05-19
Packaged: 2017-12-12 06:45:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/808520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zauberer_sirin/pseuds/zauberer_sirin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Roy and Hawkeye travel to central to tell President Grumman <i>two</i> things. (written may 2011)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Letter Of Resignation

 

**i**

They set off very early. _It's a long journey, it has been a long journey_. The air is very cold yet and gusts of wind get under their clothes and in their hair.

They board the train and it's almost empty at this hour.

He takes with him the letters written by Breda, Havoc and Fuery, safely tucked in his bag. _The letter are heavy_. They pull him more than their real weight. The morning light is still blue. Their uniforms are blue. _Still my uniform_.

It's only when they've been in the train for an hour that Roy realizes he is actually anxious about this day.

`You are fidgeting,´ Hawkeye tells him.

`Am I?´

He is. He knows this. He likes the way Hawkeye looks at him between admonishing and amused.

`You are going to ruin your hair,´ she warns him.

In the window reflection he checks it – the formal combed-back hairstyle is not meant for such long trips. Oh well, he'll sort it out once they arrive in Central. Hawkeye sitting in front of him. _Hawkeye by my side_. The only way to make this journey.

`I'm nervous,´ he says, simply.

She tilts her head and rests her cheek on her fist. She is either mocking him or copying him unconsciously. Roy counts the years they've known each other. She waits for him to elaborate.

`It's scary, if you think about it,´ he says. `I've been a soldier most of my life, that's all I know.´

_If I'm not a soldier. What am I?_

Hawkeye puts the stack of papers she's been holding to one side, on the next, empty, seat. The coach is almost empty. _We are almost alone_. Her hand lingers on the top folder. He watches her fingers.

`I know what you mean,´ she says. Her tone is more like when they are alone than a soldier's voice. `The same is true for me.´

 _I count the years_.

`Yes, yes, you followed me into the army,´ he teases her. `Very cute.´

He likes watching her cross her arms in front of her, huffing; she doesn't blush but her cheeks turn pink-ish for a moment, then it's gone. Then it's the raised eyebrow, like she does every time she is going to retaliate, Roy knows this dance so well that he winces in anticipation of her lashing.

`Oh, yes, you were the one who got me into a _war_.´

Now it's Roy's turn to look embarrassed. Or fake it.

`A tasteless remark,´ he tells her. `People died.´

She smiles at him. Roy considers how few people know about her macabre sense of humour.

He goes back to his own stack of folders on his lap. Work. The last loose ends. Letters of recommendation to be written. Decisions to be made. Last decisions. _The last loose ends_. Hawkeye is reading the newspaper.

The stations go by. The train fills up. _No longer almost alone_.

The couple sitting next to them are complaining about the weather. It is true that there has been some out-of-season rain lately. Cold days and nights all over the country. Roy calculates what it might do to the crops. Calculates the possible rise in the price of food for next year. He doesn't quite remember a time in his life when he didn't think like this – thinking the whole country his responsibility. He is not bothered by the arrogance of it, the constant worry. He imagines himself talking about the weather in an ordinary way, turning to Hawkeye and saying `it's cold. Isn't it?´ and meaning just that, ordinary that.

He looks out of the window. Stations go by. Hours. The colour of the landscape is no longer the colour of the east.

He wishes this could go on forever. The landscape. The journey. Always in motion. The decision made but he doesn't get to see the consequences just yet. That exciting moment before everything starts. He could happily stalled it. Just be here. Blue uniform and Hawkeye by his side.

`We're almost here, sir.´

Roy ponders how this might be one of the last times she calls him “ _sir_ ”, at least for the time being. A pang of nostalgia and suddenly he feels quite helpless. If he is not a soldier, if he is not _her_ superior... what is he?

Hawkeye leans into him. (Her smell. He could get distracted so easily – it's a wonder he ever gets any work done.)

`Here's mine,´ she tells him as she hands him her letter.

Her letter. _Heavy and light_. He holds on to her hand for a moment. _Nobody here knows who we are_. He smiles. The old joke.

`Are you completely sure? There's no turning back after this.´

Hawkeye looks out of the window.

`You are never going to stop asking me stupid questions?´

This time he leans into her. (His smell. He wonders if he has the same effect on her. He is not being conceited but he knows he does.)

`But I like getting you to say _yes_.´

 

 

 

**ii**

The matter is conducted with the utmost respect to ceremony and professionalism. Roy makes a point of it. He's never been too official with Grumman, not even at the beginning – the man being some sort of a joker, competent, well-liked and regarded, but definitely unhinged, the man having a reputation even before Roy met him for the first time all those years ago, a reputation Roy wouldn't mind for himself – but today it's different. Roy believes in ceremony when there are days like this. He guesses it's one of the things that attracts people to the army: the possibility of hiding your doubts behind the certainties of protocol. Roy himself is not beyond that temptation.

_If I'm not a soldier..._

When he hands in the letter Grumman tilts his head to one side, not without humour.

`So this was today. Wasn't it?´ he comments absent-mindlessly.

Roy nods. He almost falters in letting go of the envelope, two fingers still touching the corner.

It's a simple piece of paper but it's not. In the same way that Hawkeye's letter of resignation – it's childish but he keeps it in the pocket of his jacket, not in his bag with the rest – is just a piece of paper and it is not.

 _Heavy and light_.

`And here I was just getting used to the life of a Fuhrer.´

Roy apologizes.

`You've done a great job, sir. If you don't mind me saying, nobody could have done a better job.´

`Ah, but that's the thing. Somebody can do a better job.´

`But the who is not for you or me to decide.´

Grumman smiles and passes his glance from Roy to Hawkeye, giving his granddaughter a wider, benevolent grin. They've had this conversation a dozen times. They are of a same mind. Roy knows the old man is just teasing him, testing his resolve one more time. Roy reflects how he never stopped to think that he and Hawkeye (and the rest of his subordinates) are not the only one being thrown into a new life outside the army.

The President turns the letter in his hand, tapping the borders against the table.

`Very well,´ he says, straightening his posture. `General Mustang, hereby I accept your letter of resignation. From this moment on you are no longer attached to the Army of Amestris.´

Roy bows solemnly.

`Now... can we enjoy our tea?´

They are in the garden. The wind tilts the flowers until they become quizzical. Roy admires how the President manages to make all his formal occasions into something very much resembling a picnic. Roy idolizes the man, and takes mental notes of this sort of set-up. Tea and pastries for your generals, that's a lesson anyone can appreciate. That's what Roy would do. _What I will do_.

There are of course a million details that need attention, many decisions still to be made. The restructuring of the army. The issue of East. Files that Roy has brought with him. Names he has underlined. Armstrong. Ross. Another Armstrong. It will get done, but it doesn't seem like a pressing matter now. There's plenty of time. Months, perhaps more than that. He – _Roy Mustang, civilian_ – will sit down at this table again many times in the weeks to come. Today is about gestures, not practical details.

He feels different. Gestures are powerful. Once the thing is done he feels he no longer belongs in these clothes. _Blue uniform, Hawkeye by his side_. Roy counts the years.

There is another detail that needs attention and he doesn't feel like he can put it off, not this one.

He exchanges a glance with Hawkeye.

`There is, of course another matter I wanted to discuss with you, sir.´

`Is there now?´ the President seems amused.

Of course he is not clueless at all. He looks at his granddaughter. She is pointedly looking beyond him, trying not to catch his eye, and though her stance and demure are perfectly professional and even cold to the outsider's eyes, one should learn to know better: the slight flush in her cheeks, and the lips slightly curled upwards.

`You are the only family Colonel Hawkeye has left,´ Roy starts. `We wanted you to be the first to know we intend to get married next month.´

Clink-clink, the spoon against the china of the teacup. Roy surprises himself again by being nervous; a fourteen-year-old-boy's nervousness, which is a bit nice, he enjoys the feeling of his hands sweating all of the sudden and he starts thinking the most inappropriate things for a moment, starts thinking about Hawkeye's smell on his skin. He distracts himself with this: remembering the first time Hawkeye's scent was on his clothes after a whole day together, the giddiness that provoked in him. The face of the man in front of him betrays nothing and the sun catches in a way that his glasses are all reflection and Roy can't see his eyes, wondering how the hell he manages that trick.

Clink. Clink. The spoon against the rim of the teacup.

`Next month, hmm? Why such a hurry?´

`Hurry?´ Roy turns the word upside down and his hand follows unconsciously, palm upward on the table. `I don't think it's hurried. I think we've waited long enough.´

 _Hurry_. Quite the opposite. Out of the uniform... whatever he is it has to do with Hawkeye.

Grumman tuts.

`And you didn't even ask for my permission? Young people are so impetuous.´

Roy chuckles; the idea that Hawkeye would require anyone to give her permission to marry whoever she wants is rather ridiculous. He likes being called “young people”, though.

He knows that Hawkeye's relationship with her grandfather has not been exactly conventional: he had not known her as a child, they met quite late in life. One of the things, in hindsight, Roy is secretly glad of about getting Hawkeye to work with him in East City after the war was that she had no family by then, and she deserved one, and Roy is not sure she could have forged such a good relationship with Grumman otherwise.

`I believe you yourself offered me her hand in marriage a long time ago. Or am I not remembering it well?´

Now the old man turns to his granddaughter.

`He took a very long time in taking me up on that offer, Riza.´

Hawkeye nods. _I've seen this before_ , Roy thinks, remembering the many occasions back in his first years in East when his then-:Lt. General and the Lt. General's granddaughter ganged up to tease him.

`Yes, he did,´ Hawkeye agrees. `I apologize, he is very lazy, always putting things off.´

Granddaughter and grandfather chuckle and the three of them just drink their tea and joke and just like that it's done. All of it. _All_. He is no longer Roy Mustang of the Army of Amestris, he is just Roy Mustang. And Riza Hawkeye is no longer Colonel Hawkeye, no longer his subordinate. She is just Riza, plain Riza like the first time they met, they have gone back to that.

 _I count the years_.

 

 

**iii**

`And who proposed?´

By now, after so long, the girls in the bar know him and Riza well enough not to assume that Roy did the proposing. He maybe should feel hurt in his pride – _they are right, they are right_ – but he laughs and enjoys the pampering.

`I really hate to crush your expectations, ladies, but... neither of us proposed. It was a mutual –´

One of the girls makes a loud, whining sound.

`Awwww, that's not romantic at all.´

`I think it's rather romantic, actually,´ Riza comments aside, but loud enough for Roy to catch it over the sound of women cooing. He rewards her with a bright smile.

Roy's mother offers her a drink straight out of the bar and the regulars look on at the scene in awe: it's not like Madame Christmas to play waitress to the costumers, this must be an special occasion. It is. The place is pretty crowded – must be the unexpected cool weather – and Riza congratulates the owner on such a successful business.

`So you're finally making an honest man out of my boy,´ she tells Riza. `I was beginning to lose hope...´

`I was, too,´ Roy remarks, joining them. Kissing his mother on the cheek. _Proud_.

Riza runs her fingers along the line of his shoulder and arm, a touch possessively.

`I doubt anyone could make an honest man out of you,´ she replies

Roy downs his second glass of liquor with a disarmingly childish grin. _Out of the uniform_. Roy Mustang, the civilian. Roy Mustang, the marrying kind.

`I can't wait to tell everybody back in East,´ he day-dreams. It's not going to surprise anyone – _they all know_ – but he is going to enjoy the look on their faces.

Riza elbows him gently.

`You are going to brag, then?´

`Can you blame me?´ He says appreciatively. `It's a point of pride, Riza. Many said it couldn't be done. That you were too scary.´

`I might still change my mind.´

Roy laughs and puts his arm around her back, swinging her to his side affectionately. The atmosphere is joyful – the girls going _awwwwwww_ at the gesture, and one more round of drinks for everybody – and Riza soon relaxes into the touch, even though they both see it as something quite novel. They have never been particularly secretive with their relationship (at least not in familiar company) but this is the first time they talk openly about it, or at least they do so without the responsibilities of army, of being superior and subordinate.

 _Riza Hawkeye, civilian_.

When they get a bit tired of the fussing – and this has been a long day, a long surreal day; they are exhilarated by it, but worn out – Riza grabs his hand and takes him to a corner. This is the first real moment of being alone with each other of the whole day, the first sliver of privacy, even in a noisy bar. _Out of the uniform, still by my side_.

`Is your mother glad we are getting married?´She asks him. `I can never tell what she is thinking.´

It's not like Riza to look unsure. Roy doesn't blame her. His mother has a great poker face.

` _Riza_.´

`What?´

He leans back on the bar, this dark corner. Feeling quite smug.

`Nothing. I don't think I've ever said your first name in public before. Not in an awfully long time, anyway.´

`Yes, and now I'm no longer your aid. You can't order me around any more.´

Roy sighs.

`But I never could order you around. You've never followed orders, you've always done what you wanted.´

She also leans back. Shoulder to shoulder. _Partners_.

`I think we both have always done what we wanted,´ she tells him. Her voice is quiet and warm. _How few people have heard this tone of voice_. Roy counts the years.

`I guess you're right. But we were good. Weren't we? We were good soldiers.´

She rests her hand between his shoulder-blades, caressing.

`Missing it already? You haven't been out of the army for four whole hours yet.´

`I miss parts of it...´ He muses. But he doesn't want to worry Riza, he is being silly. He flashes her an unmistakeable smirk. `You looked good in uniform.´

 

 

**iv**

They are so used to the streets of East City that now the old familiar landscape of Central baffles them a bit. The city is completely man-made, unlike East and its remnants of wilderness behind certain corners.

_Missing it already?_

He steals glances at Riza. Her hair is longer now – she has been growing it out these last months, like a good omen. And now (out of her uniform, out of their uniform-clothed lives) she wears it down, the night breeze like careful fingers through it, combing it. When the wind blows her hair to one side, leaving a spot on the back of her neck exposed Roy's eye narrow with desire and part of the pleasure of the moment is how he is not letting himself speed up the pace. Every second now belongs to their future.

 _Out the uniform, still by my side_.

`I really hope I become president,´ he ponders. `It's the only way I can get you to call me _sir_ again.´

Riza nods.

`Pervert,´ she comments fondly.

He must have walked this path a hundred times: from his mother's to headquarters, from headquarters to his mother's. So then what is this unexpected vertigo, this strangeness of landscape? He holds on to Riza. Tight.

`This is fine, though. Isn't it?´

`What is?´

Roy looks around them. It's just the barely-lit streets, and a distant sound of cars, and the wind, hissing.

`This. Being civilians. Just doing this sort of thing.´

He puts his hand over hers on his arm, drawing her closer. She knows what he means. Roy is sure of that. They are just Roy and Riza right now, arm in arm, walking through deserted streets, without uniforms or titles, they are just _normal_. And tomorrow they will go back to a clear purpose, a defined fight. _Another fight_. But for a moment here that doesn't worry them. There's this freedom of being just them. That's the vertigo.

`I know what you mean,´ she tells him. She moves her fingers from under his, entwining them. `I think I'm going to like it.´

`What?´

She rests her cheek against his shoulder.

`Being a civilian. Being a civilian with you.´

 _Out of the uniform, still by my side_. They walk on. Every step now is part of their future.


End file.
